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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27834088">Heatwave</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/reitoei/pseuds/reitoei'>reitoei</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Psych (TV 2006)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:07:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,409</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27834088</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/reitoei/pseuds/reitoei</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn is pretty sure he can blame all of his problems on two things: Santa Barbara’s hottest summer on record, and Lassie’s black leather shoulder holster.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>182</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Heatwave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I hand-wrote this six years ago when I worked at a gas station and had lots of free time on my hands, and I’d never managed to write it up it until I started re-watching Psych last weekend.</p><p>It’s 7k of porn, please don’t have expectations lmao</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shawn is pretty sure he can blame all of his problems on two things: Santa Barbara’s hottest summer on record, and Lassie’s black leather shoulder holster.</p><p>It’s only early July but the last week had seen temperatures skyrocket, and following that was a shedding of clothes and a mass migration to the beach as people sought to escape the stifling heat. The temperatures hadn’t dissuaded the criminals of Santa Barbara, however, who seemed to be working twice as hard at petty theft, larson, money-laundering and murder, and the SBPD was panting at their heels and putting in overtime. Even the uniformed cops were exhausted and irritable. The usually short-tempered Lassiter was practically unbearable even by Shawn’s lax standards; he’d made two witnesses cry, chewed out McNab in the middle of the bullpen, and Juliet had confided in Shawn yesterday that she was considering shooting him in the leg to get some respite from him in the field.</p><p>And Shawn, well, he’s been slammed into so many walls he’s starting to consider it foreplay. A conversation that doesn’t end in Lassie snapping at him to shut up or go away is practically on par with hot, consensual sex and Shawn gets the warm fuzzies every time Lassie actually listens to his psychic mumbo jumbo himself instead of delegating someone else with more patience to decipher his clever references.</p><p>But Lassiter’s increasing use of brute force and physicality to get his point across is only half of Shawn’s problem—in fact, it wouldn’t be a problem at all, he’s pretty convinced, if it weren’t for the black leather shoulder holster.</p><p>The thing is, Shawn has always considered himself straight except for the odd indiscretion here or there, for the most part far away from his home turf and not the sort of sexual encounters he’d write home to Gus about. But something about those two thick strips of leather has always brought out his latent homosexuality — it’s a sad cliche he mostly tries to repress, which is fine when Lassie is properly dressed and not flexing his strong, wiry forearms hither and thither. But in an attempt to beat the heat Lassie has shed his jacket and begun rolling his sleeves up to the elbow in an alarmingly attractive fashion, and, of course, putting his holster on display for all to see and ogle. Or maybe just for Shawn to see and ogle. There’s no accounting for some peoples’ tastes.</p><p>So it’s not like he purposefully needles Lassie until he manhandles Shawn face first into the nearest vertical surface and threatens to arrest him, but if it makes him tingly with something resembling anticipation and he has to recite the numbers of pi until he calms down afterward, well, that’s his dirty little secret.</p><p> </p><p>Or it was a secret until about two seconds ago, when Shawn turned around before he reached the twentieth digit to find that Lassie had not left, only taken a few steps back</p><p>“Ah.” Shawn says softly as Lassie’s gaze travels down almost compulsively. A stunned look crosses his face followed by a flush of embarrassment, which—if anyone is going to be embarrassed… “It’s not what you think—well, it is, but.”</p><p>He pauses, at a loss for words for once.</p><p>Lassie holds up his hand. He seems unable to look Shawn in the eye. This is having the opposite effect on Shawn than he suspects it should, and he wishes he could turn around again just to knock his head against the wall. Why couldn’t his Big Gay Crush be on Gus, who would at least have done him the courtesy of not noticing his awkwardly timed hard-on?</p><p>“I’m going to leave now,” Lassie says. “I’ll, uh, give you some… privacy.”</p><p>He waves his hand in Shawn’s general direction, looking like the words pain him. His expression betrays some flavour of desperation. Shawn recognizes an out when he saw one.</p><p>“Bye, Lassie,” he says firmly, ignoring the fact that seeing Lassiter all flushed and sweaty and uncomfortable is doing things to him.</p><p>Lassie spins on his heel without further ado and Shawn lets out a big sigh, half relief and half exasperation at himself. His deepest desires right at that moment ought to have been:</p><p>1. Avoid experiencing that ‘my crush just caught me with a boner’ kind of humiliation ever again, because he isn’t in junior high, and</p><p>2. Stop thinking about the whole thing until he can look Lassie in the face again without remembering Lassie’s solid weight against his back or the force with which Lassie’s big hand gripped his wrist.</p><p>But all he really wants to do was go home and jerk off.</p><p>He groans and wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, willing his erection to go away before Gus finds him. He is so screwed.</p><p> </p><p>The next time he sees Lassie he’s shirtless—it’s a public pool, after all, even though he and Gus are investigating a gruesome murder—and Lassie’s wearing a grey shirt and a terrible tie, and his gun is snugly tucked away in that tantalizing bit of black leather. He marches straight over to the two of them and grabs Shawn by the back of the neck in a manner that makes him a little weak at the knees. This is inching past ‘latent homosexuality’.</p><p>“Lassie,” he whines almost involuntarily as Lassiter directs him behind the changing rooms. “Don’t you want to know who did it?”</p><p>“Yes, and O’Hara and I will find out without your help,” Lassie growls. Shawn is acutely aware of the curious looks they’re drawing, but the firm hand on his neck makes it hard to care. “There’s no earthly reason for you to be here. You haven’t been hired. Go haunt some other public sphere where I—where we are not working.”</p><p>Lassie gives him a little shove when they reach the gates and he stumbles, bare feet burning on the hot pavement.</p><p>“What about Gus?” He turns. “He’s got my shoes.”</p><p>He doesn’t miss the way Lassie’s eyes flicker down and he’s helpless to stop himself from responding with interest. That is not the look a straight man gives another man who’s wearing nothing but a pair of shorts.</p><p>“He can stay,” Lassie says, hardly faltering this time. Like he expects Shawn to be turned on by this. Like he’s counting on it. Shawn bunches his hands in his swim trunks. “He respects my authority.”</p><p>“I respect your authority,” Shawn says with an insolent tilt of his head. “When it matters.”</p><p>“If by respect you mean flagrantly disregard.” Lassie steps forward.</p><p>Shawn can feel beads of sweat forming and dripping down his back; the air is stifling.</p><p>He shrugs. “Potato, po-tah-to.”</p><p>Lassie scowls in that way that makes him look ferocious but also a little bit cute, not that Shawn would ever say that out loud. “Just go home, Spencer. It’s too hot for anyone to be useful out here.”</p><p>“Okay,” says Shawn, a little rough, because sometimes when Lassie is being intimidating and sexy he really does want to prove that he can be good. He clears his throat. “Yeah.”</p><p>He doesn’t miss the way Lassie swallows before he says, “I’ll send Gus out.”</p><p>Maybe Shawn is lucky after all.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>The pool accident turns out to be a murder and Carlton puts in overtime on his overtime to interview witnesses and talk to people of interest. It isn’t until a three or so days later when he surfaces from a series of exhausting interviews with recalcitrant and cranky pool goers and remembers what Spencer said—‘Don’t you want to know who did it?’—and notices his conspicuous absence from the station.</p><p>He lets out a growl. O’Hara frowns at him over her paperwork. Even she looks frazzled, her usually tidy suit rumpled by the heat and sagging with a lack of pizazz. A crease has tucked itself between her eyebrows.</p><p>“Why hasn’t the chief brought Psych in on this case?” Carlton demands.</p><p>“I think Shawn said something about summer rates, and you know how the department’s budget is scraped thin right now.” Her frown smooths out into a look of sympathy. “I take it the interviews didn’t go well.”</p><p>“Nobody remembers a damn thing. The pool cleaner and his assistant both have solid alibis and nobody else has access to the drains. The security footage was useless, too.” He runs a hand over his face.</p><p>His head is stuffy and he’s been sticky from the heat since he stepped outside this morning. Every movement is unpleasant. Trying to piece together this case is like running in slow motion.</p><p>“I’m going to talk to Chief Vick,” he says finally.</p><p>“By all means,” says Juliet.</p><p>“I just think we could use all hands on deck right now,” he justifies. He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.</p><p>But Juliet only waves a hand and bends over her paperwork once more. “Okay, Carlton.”</p><p>He stands there for a minute more, meaning to offer some kind of encouragement or approval, but nothing comes to mind. He spins on his heel and leaves before he can make a fool of himself.</p><p>The ‘summer rates’ O’Hara mentioned turns out to mean that Spencer and Guster are charging their private clients double for the privilege of hiring them and have already refused this case for something more lucrative.</p><p>“I can’t force them to take it,” says Vick, though the expression on her face indicates that she’d very much like that power.</p><p>Carlton would prefer the power to ban them from any case he pleases, but that’s not what today is about. Today is about finding a lead before he snaps and strangles one of the chlorine-added witnesses.</p><p>But Vick dismisses him with a short, “Sorry, Carlton.”</p><p>He returns to his desk. For a moment he considers the jacket hanging from the back of his chair, untouched, but he remembers how last week at the start of the heat wave he’d shucked it off and left it there, and Spencer had said off-handedly, “You’re practically naked, Lassie,” as Carlton had walked by wearing just his shirt and twin holsters. He’d followed it up with a smirk and, “It’s a good look.”</p><p>Something a little dangerous rises in him. Carefully, Carlton unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up his sleeves. He casts a quick glance at O’Hara, who’s focused on her paperwork.</p><p>He doesn’t know what game he’s playing, but he always plays to win.</p><p> </p><p>Carlton has carefully managed his expectations when it comes to Spencer. Years of unpredictable behaviour has taught him to expect very little and be pleasantly surprised when things go well. Still, when he reaches the Psych office he self-consciously adjusts the leather shoulder straps and brushes the sweat-dampened hair off his forehead, and, somewhat shamefully, checks the street for Guster’s car. The feeling in his stomach surfaces with renewed vigour when he sees that it’s not parked anywhere nearby.</p><p>Maybe they’re both out.</p><p>Maybe it’s just Spencer.</p><p>“This is ridiculous,” he tells himself, and steps out of the car.</p><p>The heat hits him like a punch to the face, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He grits his teeth and makes his way to the door.</p><p>No one answers after the first knock. He flees back to the car. He’s about to drive off, relieved and disappointed, when he hears his name and Spencer taps on his window. He’s wearing tennis shoes and a speedo, and a shit-eating grin.</p><p>“Lassie!” he says when Carlton rolls down the window. “You came to visit! How thoughtful of you. Psych doesn’t have air conditioning so I went for a cooling swim. Gus won’t leave his office—which does have air conditioning, the selfish jerk—and I was getting lonely.”</p><p>“What?” Carlton shakes his head. “Where are your clothes, Spencer? What you’re wearing is... indecent.”</p><p>“It’s too hot for clothes.” Spencer opens the driver’s side door. “Come play Halo with me, Lassie. I’ve been bored out of my mind.”</p><p>“I’m here on business,” says Carlton. Spencer’s face is ruddy and he smells like salt and sweat and hair gel, and he’s way too far inside Carlton’s personal space. “What happened to your client? Vick said you were busy.”</p><p>“Oh, I solved that ages ago. Now I’m taking a vacation. A tanning vacation, since it’s too hot to do anything else.”</p><p>“A vacation.” Carlton’s blood rises. He gets out of the car, crowding Spencer backward until he can slam the door shut behind him. “While the rest of us work our asses off.”</p><p>Spencer ducks his head in that little submissive move of his. “Well, when you put it that way—yep.”</p><p>“The Chief says you declined the pool murder,” says Carlton.</p><p>“Oh, it’s murder now?” Spencer feigns innocence, eyebrows going up in the middle.</p><p>Carlton advances. Spencer lifts his hands in defence. “Okay, the truth is I thought you guys would’ve wrapped that one up by now. The killer is pretty obvious, even for you—“</p><p>“Spencer,” Carlton growls.</p><p>“What I mean to say is, the spirits didn’t tell me anything a good detective couldn’t deduce from the crime scene—“</p><p>“Just tell me who it is,” he snaps.</p><p>Miraculously, Spencer does.</p><p>“She has an alibi,” says Carlton, but his mind is already racing, thinking about motive and method, and yes, he hates this part. The part where Spencer shows him up like he’s not the youngest Head Detective of the SBPD and he hasn’t got an arrest record longer than Spencer is tall.</p><p>“Who verified the alibi?” Spencer says, zeroing in on the weak spot. Carlton is half a second behind him.</p><p>Carlton’s got some idea how he does his little magic trick but sometimes watching it happen still makes him despair. Spencer’s sharp, driven, and he has the mind of a detective. He could’ve been a formidable cop if he didn’t have such a chip on his shoulder.</p><p>“It was the sister...” Who probably wouldn’t hesitate to lie to protect her family. Carlton lets out an explosive sigh. “I need to get a warrant.”</p><p>“So no Halo? It’s wham, bam, get what you want and leave, huh?” He crosses his arms over his chest.</p><p>Carlton can’t help the way his gaze flicks down and back up, taking in Spencer’s admittedly tanned—and toned—legs, short golden hairs emerging in a trail from his tiny bathing suit, and the bulge of his forearms. Spencer is blushing by the time Carlton reaches his face. Beneath the suddenly overwhelming pounding of his own heart Carlton wonders why. Ordinarily he’s shameless.</p><p>Carlton turns away to open the car door. He considers for a moment.</p><p>“That’s exactly how it is,” he says finally.</p><p>“Well—come back when you’re done arresting her,” Spencer says, like a challenge. “Take a mini-vacation. Your ass is too nice to get worked off.”</p><p>“Spencer,” Carlton says warningly, but it comes out too quiet and sincere. He turns the ignition and lets himself be soothed by the sweet, sweet air conditioning. Spencer is playing with fire and he knows it. “Put some damn clothes on. You look ridiculous.”</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>Shawn doesn’t expect him to come back. That would be ridiculous—maybe a little weird, even, because he can’t picture him and Lassie sitting in the office playing Halo, Lassie on the couch and Shawn in the superior cushion nest on the floor. At his feet.</p><p>Okay, so he can picture it. Maybe a little too well.</p><p>This is a worse idea than when he took his dad’s car to drive a girl to the prom.</p><p>He puts on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt anyway, because he feels more naked than he did ten minutes ago. And because Lassie told him to. The thought sends a thrill through him. Damn those shoulder holsters for awakening—whatever this is.</p><p>He throws himself into the cushion nest and starts a new game, but his heart isn’t in it and he dies in the first two minutes. He gets up and fishes a popsicle out of the freezer, sticks his head inside the freezer for a bit to cool down, flops back onto the floor. Starts a new game.</p><p>He kicks ass this time, and after an hour he gets up again and brings the whole box of popsicles over. He switches to GTA V and drives around completing the most obscure quests he can remember. Halfway through the box he’s struck with the thought that he’s a man in his thirties and he has nothing else to do with his time except lie on the floor and play video games.</p><p>By this time in his life Lassie was a detective with an already-impressive arrest record, driving single-mindedly toward his goal of Head Detective, married to a wealthy heiress.</p><p>Shawn shrugs off this thought. He doesn’t want marriage to a wealthy heiress. A month ago he’d have settled for a pretty girlfriend. Now...? He’s got cherry popsicles to eat and images of Lassie in a weirdly sexual leather harness to jerk off over later. In the meantime he’s got some buddies to betray.</p><p>And that’s how Lassie finds him three hours later.</p><p>He doesn’t hear the door open through the gunfire on the TV. In fact, he doesn’t notice anything until Lassie’s spit-shined shoes tap against the side of his popsicle box. He yells in surprise and scrambles away, the controller flying out of his hands to skitter across the floor.</p><p>“Lassie!” He grabs his chest. “Get a bell!”</p><p>Holy shit, Lassie is here. And Shawn is sweaty and kind of sticky from the popsicles and his hair is probably limp. He runs a hand through his hair self-consciously.</p><p>“Is that all you’ve eaten today?” Lassiter nudges the popsicle box with his shoes.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“I brought dinner.” Lassie drops a paper bag next to him. Then he makes a face. “That makes it sound like a date.”</p><p>Shawn’s stomach flip-flops. “Do you always bring your guns to a date?”</p><p>“Of course,” Lassie responds immediately. “Why wouldn’t I—? Never mind. The point is it’s not a date. So we’re clear.”</p><p>“Okay.” Shawn laughs nervously. No matter which way you look at it, the word ‘date’ crossed Lassie’s mind in the context of him. Them. Alone in the same room.</p><p>He and Gus do this all the time—get takeout, hang out in the office playing video games. Even sit with their feet in each others’ laps. It’s not weird if they don’t get weird about it. Not that they haven’t had their fair share of awkward ‘are we dating?’ moments, especially right after Shawn moved back, before things settled back to normal and while they were both still a little emotionally raw from Shawn’s abandonment—but this isn’t that. He and Gus don’t have sexual tension.</p><p>Shawn opens the paper bag to hide the blush rising in his cheeks as Lassie takes the couch behind him. His whole body prickles with heat. Is this really happening?</p><p>Lassie’s idea of dinner is... weird.</p><p>“Corndogs,” says Shawn. “You shouldn’t have.”</p><p>“There was a guy selling them on the boardwalk.” He sounds defensive.</p><p>“I’ve had stranger things for dinner.” Shawn shrugs. Cold corndogs are par for the course.</p><p>There are ketchup packets tucked in the bag, but no mustard, but that’s okay and Shawn is giddy because this is Lassie’s idea of a date. Not a real date, of course, because Lassie would definitely take a lady to a mid-grade restaurant and woo her with cheap wine and seafood, but the kind of date he’d have with Shawn. Which is better.</p><p>He puts on Gremlins and explains the plot to Lassie between bites. Lassie is not impressed by the movie. His long legs stick stiffly out from the couch and his arms are crossed over his chest. Shawn keeps glancing back at his long form and the way the holster stretches his shirt over his chest.</p><p>“Why would they do exactly what the guy told them not to?”</p><p>Shawn wipes his fingers on a napkin. “That’s how people are. You tell them to do one thing, they do the opposite.”</p><p>“Don’t I know it,” Lassie grumbles.</p><p>“You want the last corndog?” Shawn offers.</p><p>Lassie shakes his head. “I’ve eaten.”</p><p>“In between finding out I was right about the desk attendant, booking her, and picking up dinner for yours truly?” It’s cute that Lassie still thinks he can lie to Shawn.</p><p>Lassie drums his fingers on his bicep. He changes tack. “I’m not hungry. It’s too hot to eat.”</p><p>Shawn considers Lassie’s stiff posture and the way he keeps looking at Shawn and pretending he hasn’t. Of course he’s nervous—it’s probably his first date with a guy. In spite of the fact that he’s all... commanding and in-charge and likes to throw Shawn around, he’s probably hoping not to have to take the lead. Luckily it’s not Shawn’s first rodeo—maybe just his first in a while—and he’s happy to oblige.</p><p>He’s just gonna eat the last corndog and maybe finish the movie. Then he’ll get right on seducing Lassie.</p><p> </p><p>An hour later Shawn has managed to talk his way through the beginning of the next movie but hasn’t moved an inch from his pillow nest, and yeah, maybe he’s nervous too. It’s not like he’s had a lot of experience with the other half of his sexuality. It’s easier to flirt with girls—he knows what to expect. But he’s way out of his depth when it comes to Carlton Lassiter, whose forearms he’s become desperately attracted in the space of one heat wave and who has the potential to make his life very difficult if he fucks this up.</p><p>“Spencer,” Lassie says suddenly, and oh no, he’s getting up, scratching the back of his neck in a sort of endearingly nervous way. Shawn can’t think fast enough to keep him here. “I’ve got another long day tomorrow. Unlike you, I’d imagine.”</p><p>“Do you want coffee?” Shawn shoots to his feet. “Gus just bought this new coffee machine with little pods that you put in the top. It makes a pretty mean hot chocolate, too.”</p><p>Lassie’s eyebrows go up. “You drink coffee in this weather?”</p><p>“It’s mostly Gus who drinks it.” Shawn takes a step. They’re really close now and Lassie isn’t moving away. He’s standing stock still, his blue eyes maybe wider than usual.</p><p>Shawn reaches out and slides a hand between the leather holster and the damp white shirt. The leather is warm, but not as warm as Lassie’s chest beneath the cotton. He feels Lassie’s quiet intake of breath as a rise under his palm. “And you know how coffee is usually code for something else?”</p><p>“I know,” says Lassie hoarsely.</p><p>Shawn kind of wants to lean in and kiss him. He really wants to. But he thinks better of it.</p><p>“Today it’s code for ‘I want to give you a blowjob before I make you coffee’.” He pauses to consider how Lassie’s heart has sped up. “Or hot chocolate. Which you may or may not drink before fleeing in heterosexual panic.”</p><p>Shawn thinks it’s important to explain that he’s perfectly prepared and in fact accepting of this inevitability.</p><p>“Spencer, I—“</p><p>There may be a glimmer of amusement in Lassie’s eyes. Shawn’s ready for uncertainty, denial, hostility, even disgust—after the deed is done, of course—but definitely not amusement. Lassie is supposed to play the nervous closeted Catholic in this scenario. So he puts a finger over Lassie’s mouth.</p><p>“Before you ask, I can keep a secret. Word of your—well, my—indiscretion will not get around the station.”</p><p>He slides his hand down Lassie’s firm chest and hums in approval.</p><p>“Look—“ Lassie tries again.</p><p>“The panic is supposed to come after the blowjob,” Shawn says.</p><p>A wrinkle of frustration manifests on Lassie’s brow. He grabs Shawn’s wrist as Shawn makes a bid south. But Shawn figures this is the easy part. He’s gotten this far without a punch to the face.</p><p>Never mind that his heart is trying to burst out of his chest or that the hand Lassie’s holding is shaking just a teeny bit. He’s going to do this—finally—and he should really do it before he chickens out. He gives Lassie a gentle shove.</p><p>Lassie falls back into the couch without much resistance. Shawn drops to his knees on the short pile polyester carpet and makes short work of his pants, stomach jerking anew when Lassie lifts his hips to let Shawn pull down his briefs. A curl of arousal rises hotly in his abdomen. And, oh, Lassie’s definitely not uninterested. He’s half hard, his cock thick against the tight, dark curls at his groin. Shawn takes him in hand and Lassie sucks in a breath like he’s done something more noteworthy than touch his dick.</p><p>Lassie tips his head back against the couch and shuts his eyes.</p><p>“This is a bad idea.”</p><p>“I know,” Shawn tells him. “I’m great at bad ideas.”</p><p>Shawn really, thoroughly enjoys oral sex with all genders, and he doesn’t lack for enthusiasm or skill. Lassie’s big, but not so big that Shawn can’t take him all the way down his throat until Lassie’s hand comes up to grip his hair and he starts swearing.</p><p>Shawn pulls back and slides the flat of his tongue up Lassie’s cock to to the head, tasting the salty and slightly sour pre-come leaking from it. One hand grips Lassie’s wiry thigh and the other drifts below his own belt line, pressing almost absentmindedly at his erection.</p><p>Lassie’s hips jerk as Shawn swallows him down again and he lets out a noise. He’s louder than Shawn expected, which is blowing his mind. He takes him down as far as he can, throat working, kneading himself through his shorts.</p><p>“Fuck, Spencer. I’m gonna come.” Lassie’s fingers tighten painfully in his hair and Shawn moans. He likes that exactly as much as he’d imagined.</p><p>Lassie’s just holding him there, not pulling him down, just keeping him in place. He pulls out a fraction and lets out an explosive, soundless breath as his come paints Shawn’s tongue and slides down his throat.</p><p>Shawn pulls back, coughing, and Lassie lets him. He sits back on his heels and swallows, wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand. He waits for Lassie to catch his breath, one hand still gripping his thigh. As the silence lengthens the frenzy of the moment slips away and leaves an unsatisfactory stickiness. Lassie shifts to sit up.</p><p>Shawn takes his hand away. “We should do that again sometime.”</p><p>Ordinarily he’s less than shy around sexual partners. There’s nothing to be gained by playing coy in the bedroom, or the Psych office, as the case may be. But as Lassie pulls his briefs back up, his expression unreadable, Shawn has to acknowledge with a sinking feeling that he may have overplayed his hand.</p><p>“Shawn,” Lassie says. He looks down and buttons up his pants, buckling the belt with a purposeful motion. It looks almost as hot as it does coming open.</p><p>“Um,” says Shawn.</p><p>“Thank... you?”</p><p>Shawn winces.</p><p>“Reciprocation would be an adequate thanks,” he suggests.</p><p>Lassie’s gaze flickers down. Amazingly, he seems to blush. He stands unsteadily—okay, that’s a bit of an ego boost—which puts Shawn at eye level with his crotch. Huh. Shawn edges backward, not sure if he should stand too.</p><p>“I, uh.” Lassie hesitates.</p><p>“Or this could be the part where you run away in an attempt to preserve your remaining heterosexuality.”</p><p>Or he could shut up.</p><p>“Shut up, Spencer,” Lassie growls, as if he’s the psychic. He takes a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is... I’ll take that coffee first.”</p><p>“Oh, thank God.” Shawn lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and is immediately embarrassed. Lassie isn’t meant to find out at any point exactly how scared Shawn is of alienating him. He bounces to his feet and ducks out of the room behind the partition to disguise his discomfort.</p><p>“I’ll be right back,” he calls.</p><p>He makes hot chocolate for himself first. He’s still flush with adrenaline and turned on and a tiny bit hopeful, and he wants to preserve that feeling, bottle it before reality chases it out of him. His heart beats frantically as he dumps four sugars into an empty cup and listens for signs that Lassie is leaving. There are none.</p><p>Still, he nearly drops the cup when Lassie comes up behind him and says, “Decaf.”</p><p>“Jesus, Lassie,” he swears, hot chocolate slopping over his hand.</p><p>He drops a decaf pod in the machine and pushes Lassie’s mug underneath. Lassie leans against the counter, long legs crossed in front of him, arms folded, in a mirror of his earlier pose, looking unnecessarily sexy in the midst of the mess that is Psych’s kitchenette. He’s smirking. Shawn’s never found his smirk hot before. Or maybe he’s just been pretending not to.</p><p>“I thought you’d be able to ‘sense’ me psychically,” he says, complete with air quotes, but it lacks bite.</p><p>Shawn shrugs, running his hand under cold water. “It’s true that I have a greater psychic connection to those I’ve been intimate with,” he rattles off. “But you’re stealthy like a cat. Like a puma or something.”</p><p>“The same schtick, Spencer?” Lassie shakes his head.</p><p>“Yes?” Shawn sneaks a glance at him. “In case you hadn’t noticed it’s kind of my thing. My, y’know, defining feature.”</p><p>“I just thought—“</p><p>Lassie has a little fold between his eyebrows and Shawn has to look away before the ache in his gut prompts him to do something stupid. Like confess. Is he really done for after one good dose of endorphins?</p><p>Lassie takes his decaf coffee and doesn’t finish his thought. The euphoric feeling slips away. Shawn busies himself cleaning up even though his usual modus operandi is to leave everything where it falls until Gus complains and/or cleans it up himself. In his peripheral vision, Lassie straightens like he’s about to deliver a verdict. Shawn braces himself.</p><p>“Do you need a ride home or do you sleep in this pigsty?”</p><p>Relief makes his knees watery. He grins. “I’m feeling such love from you, Lassie. But I’ll take a lift to my humble abode if you’re offering. Are you?”</p><p>“Come on.” Lassie jerks his chin at the door.</p><p>“Wow, really? I call shotgun!” Shawn follows him out into the dark, leaving the two mugs abandoned on the counter.</p><p>“You don’t need to call it, nobody else is here,” Lassie grumbles. Shawn ignores him.</p><p> </p><p>He chatters all the way to his laundromat-turned-apartment, equilibrium restored. They pull up to the curb and Lassie turns off the engine and gets out.</p><p>“You’re being weirdly nice,” Shawn tells him across the hood of the car. “Are you going to walk me to my door?”</p><p>“I am capable of human decency.” Lassie scowls at him, paradoxically. “And no. I’m coming in with you.”</p><p>A bolt of anticipation shoots through the pit of Shawn’s stomach. “More coffee?”</p><p>“Yes.” He hesitates. “If that’s—“</p><p>Shawn reaches across the car to shush him. “Don’t ruin the moment. Come quickly before the blood rushes back to your brain and you realize what you’re doing.”</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>Carlton follows Spencer into his weird pseudo-apartment, irritation and arousal flaring in equal measures at both the anticipation of the act and the way Spencer is treating it. And him. Like he’s a blushing virgin, when Spencer is the one who has to calm himself down after being manhandled—</p><p>There’s something about Spencer treating him like a confused heterosexual that makes him want to push him around a bit, show him that it isn’t his first pony ride.</p><p>“Welcome!” Shawn sweeps his arm out and throws his keys on the counter. “Mi casa es su casa.”</p><p>“Good Lord, is that your bed?” The words come out of Carlton’s mouth before he can think. There’s some kind of cartoon on the bedspread. “I can’t fuck you on that. I feel like a pedophile just looking at it.”</p><p>“Um.” Spencer blushes. “There’s the love seat?”</p><p>The ratty love seat isn’t much better—and poorly named, after all, because Carlton isn’t sure how two grown men will fit—but he sinks down in the middle of it nonetheless. It’s not really better than the bed, but maybe less intimate. Which is good. Sex is intimate enough without getting out of the other person’s bet afterward.</p><p>He loosens his tie and watches Spencer rifle through his drawers, apparently cool as a cucumber. Though Carlton remembers the feeling of his pulse jackrabbiting in his wrist when Carlton grabbed his hand in the Psych office.</p><p>“Ahah.” Spencer finally turns, brandishing a strip of foil packets and a small bottle. “Pineapple-flavoured. But not really pineapple, cause that would burn.”</p><p>He shucks his shorts and shirt seemingly without an ounce of self consciousness and drops the lube and condoms next to Carlton on the couch. Carlton appraises him. He’s always known in a sort of abstract way that Spencer is good looking, if a bit of a twink. His chest is smooth except for a bit of blond scruff and a patch above the ridiculous speedo he’s still wearing. He’s not twenty nine and skinny anymore, his belly is soft and his shoulders are more filled in, but he moves with the same frenetic energy that makes Carlton want to put him down.</p><p>Carlton reaches up to unstrap his shoulder holsters and unbutton his shirt, but Spencer puts a hand over his and straddles him. His arousal is already obvious.</p><p>“It’s okay like this, yeah?“</p><p>Carlton gets it with a jolt of arousal.</p><p>Spencer wriggles a bit and manages to get his boxers off, and Carlton can’t resist anymore. He slides his hands up Spencer’s legs to grip the soft bit above his hips. Spencer whines.</p><p>“Lassie—“</p><p>“Stop squirming,” Carlton growls, digging his fingers in.</p><p>“Okay,” Spencer breathes. He stills, and they’re like that for a moment, Spencer naked except for his ridiculous shell and bead necklace, his cock almost brushing the crisp folds of Carlton’s shirt; Carlton fully clothed and Spencer refusing to meet his eyes, breathing a little too heavily for someone who’s hardly been touched.</p><p>“Is kissing okay? Cause I’d really like to.” Spencer leans in and they’re practically breathing each others’ air.</p><p>Carlton grabs the short hairs at the back of his neck and says, “No kissing.”</p><p>He doesn’t need Spencer further under his skin. And kissing isn’t anything to do with sex.</p><p>“Okay, okay.” Spencer fumbles for the zipper on Carlton’s pants. “Just let me—God, Lassie.”</p><p>He exhales. Carlton had pulled Spencer’s head back a little harder than he’d meant to when his knuckles brushed Carlton’s cock.</p><p>“Sorry.” He lets go, but Spencer hadn’t been complaining and they both know it.</p><p>“Don’t be,” Spencer groans. “In fact, do it again.”</p><p>He smirks and pulls Spencer’s head back again, exposing his neck. He slides his palm over Spencer’s cock. “You like it rough, huh?”</p><p>“Only with you,” says Spencer breathily, which goes straight to his gut. He tugs once for good measure and lets go.</p><p>Finally, Spencer works Carlton’s cock out of his briefs and scrabbles for the lube. Carlton takes it from him.</p><p>“Let me,” he says, drizzling it on his fingers.</p><p>Spencer arches into him as his fingers find the tight muscle of his ass. His eyes are downcast and his cheeks hot. Carlton breaches him slowly and there’s an equal and opposite intake of breath and Spencer’s hands tighten on his shoulders.</p><p>“Oh, fuck,” he gasps as Carlton presses forward with both fingers until they’re knuckle-deep in him.</p><p>He’s tight with tension around Carlton’s fingers. Carlton pulls out and works his way back in. Spencer is squirming and making breathy noises, which is gratifying but probably doesn’t say much for his sexual prowess, just that Spencer is easy. How many other men has he done this for? How many of Carlton’s... disposition?</p><p>Spencer drops his head to Carlton’s shoulder. The skin of his back is sweaty where Carlton’s other hand lays, muscles shifting as he moves, seeking more.</p><p>“Please,” he says, and Carlton curls his fingers and thrusts roughly into him. “Please, Lassie, come on, fuck me.“</p><p>Carlton slips his fingers out.</p><p>“Spencer, are you sure?” he murmurs.</p><p>Maybe he’s stalling.</p><p>“I’m sure,” Spencer urges. He’s got one hand around the base of his cock.</p><p>Carlton tears open the packet and puts the condom on, stroking himself briefly. Spencer lifts himself, muscles of his thighs corded and trembling as Carlton presses the head of his cock against Spencer’s opening and slowly, inexorably guides it inside with a firm thrust.</p><p>Spencer tightens at first, resisting, and then he lets out a breath against Carlton’s skin and he’s sinking down and it’s so hot, so good. But he stops.</p><p>Carlton grabs his hip again. Spencer takes a hand off himself and braces it on Carlton’s chest.</p><p>“Lass, you’re kind of a big boy,” he says, breathless.</p><p>The heat around him is driving Carlton crazy. He loosens his hold on Spencer and takes a steadying breath.</p><p>“You can take it,” he rasps.</p><p>“Uhuh,” Spencer whines, tightening.</p><p>“You want it.” Carlton shifts, adjusting his angle. Spencer’s thighs quake.</p><p>“N-no argument here,” Spencer says, panting.</p><p>He puts his other hand on Spencer’s hip too, anchoring him, not pushing, just pressing into the dimples there with his thumbs. Spencer sinks slowly down. Finally they’re flush and Spencer is breathing like he’s run a marathon, damp and red-chested. He rolls his hips and lifts himself barely out of Carlton’s lap, then slides back down with a groan.</p><p>“Work with me, Lassie,” he breathes. “I know you wanna take charge. Burn off some of that sexual tension. All throwing me into walls and threatening me with handcuffs was just foreplay, wasn’t it?”</p><p>“Shut up,” Carlton says, clamping a hand over Spencer’s mouth unthinkingly. Spencer’s eyes widen and his movements become quick and frantic, and Carlton’s suddenly close. Heat sweeps up his spine and he starts fucking Spencer in earnest, deep, rough strokes. Spencer goes limp for a while, making wanton noises that are stifled by Carlton’s hand.</p><p>Then Spencer licks his palm.</p><p>“Hey!” He yanks his hand away, hips faltering.</p><p>“Harder,” says Spencer.</p><p>Carlton growls and manhandles Spencer off his lap. He stands up and unbuckles his belt, whips it off, and maneuvers Spencer with a not entirely gentle shove so that he braces himself on the back of the couch with a grunt. He leans over Spencer and grabs both wrists, pulling them up and around behind his back, and lashes his belt around them firmly. Spencer drops his head.</p><p>“Fuck,” he hisses.</p><p>Carlton puts an arm around Spencer’s abdomen to hold him upright. With his other hand he wedges his cock into the soft, hot skin of Spencer’s ass and slams home, pushing the breath out of Spencer with a shout. Spencer’s back is tight to his chest now. His heat bleeds through two layers of clothing. Spencer is begging, words tumbling out of him at breakneck speed. Carlton doesn’t pay it any attention.</p><p>“Is this what you want?” he murmurs into Spencer’s ear. Spencer arches into him. “You want someone to make you submit? Fuck you through your daddy issues?”</p><p>“Oh, god, don’t stop talking,” Spencer moans. “Please, come on, I want to—I’m almost—just touch me, please.“</p><p>“You’ll take what I give you.” Carlton groans as Spencer suddenly tightens around him.</p><p>Even when Spencer’s tied up he can’t help taking what he wants. He wriggles shamelessly to get the angle that satisfies him, makes him cry out sharply and clamp down. Carlton is right behind him, one hand flat against Spencer’s stomach and the other yanking the leash—too hard, but Spencer is shuddering and making noise instead of complaining. He comes hard, forehead pressed to Spencer’s damp shoulder.</p><p>Spencer folds over almost double, forehead resting on the back of the couch. Slowly, Carlton pulls out. A muted whine escapes him.</p><p>“That was awesome,” he gasps. “Wow, Lassie.”</p><p>Carlton lets go of the end of his belt. Something undefinable roars through him at the sight of Spencer bent over the couch with his hands tied behind his back and his ass in the air, the black leather framing his reddened hole. He wants to drop to his knees and press his mouth there, make Spencer shout and squirm. He pulls the condom off instead and tucks himself back into his pants. Then he pulls Spencer up by his shoulders and unbuckles the belt.</p><p>Spencers wrists are lashed with red. He rubs them absently and looks up at Carlton through his thick, dark lashes. Carlton realizes suddenly that it’s not a ploy—it’s shyness. Spencer is uncomfortable.</p><p>“I knew you’d be a tiger in bed. Well, figuratively. On the couch.” Spencer smirks, some of his self-consciousness dissipating. He sits down, wincing. Carlton threads his belt back through his pant loops, not missing how Spencer zeroes in on the motion.</p><p>He wants to follow up on that ‘I knew’—for how long, exactly, has Spencer thought about what Carlton would be like in bed? Carlton is an observant man, but he’s never pegged Spencer as interested until he saw Spencer face the wall and count under his breath after being pushed around. Hadn’t thought about what he could get from Spencer until he’d been invited in. And once thought of, he’d been helpless to stop it from happening.</p><p>He shakes himself. “I should go.”</p><p>Spencer sits up. “Already? I thought we could go for round two.”</p><p>“It’s late.” Carlton picks up the condom and throws it into the bin next to the love seat.</p><p>Spencer fishes for his shorts wriggles into them, commando. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve been known to forego sleep in favour of awesome sex. Besides, you can’t panic now—you initiated.”</p><p>“I’m not panicking.” He is. Just not in the way Spencer probably thinks. “It’s a calculated escape from an awkward social situation.”</p><p>“I thought we surpassed awkward while I was begging you for more,” Spencer says. Carlton looks over. He has a cocky tilt to his head, but it’s half-hearted. His expression is closer to anxious.</p><p>“I can’t do this.” Carlton shakes his head. Whatever Spencer wants beyond this, he can’t give. “I hope this doesn’t interfere with our... professional relationship.”</p><p>Spencer stands up. “Sure, Lassie,” he says. “That’s okay. I know how it is. One quick fuck to get it out of your system so you can go back to your respectable life afterward. I can deal.”</p><p>Carlton wants to tell him it’s not like that at all, but it would be a lie. One quick fuck. He reaches out and grabs Spencer by the back of the neck. The kiss is haphazard, soft and a bit sloppy because Spencer is surprised. He lets him go almost as fast as he reeled him in.</p><p>“See you later, Spencer,” he says.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>Shawn sleeps on top of the covers—naked, of course, because he strips once Lassie’s gone—for exactly three hours. He gets up at four am and bounces aimlessly around his apartment. The heat has broken and it’s overcast by the time the sun rises. He’s still sore, but in a good way, the way that makes jerking off in the shower a little more intense. He bites his knuckles and groans into his hand when he comes.</p><p>Later he styles his hair and puts on a shirt that makes him look a little slimmer, his only pair of jeans, and the navy boat shoes Gus left behind once. He brushes his teeth (and his tongue) and considers the cheap cologne stashed under the sink.</p><p>Shawn ranks people like his dad ranks fish. Gus is a little fish—figuratively speaking. It never takes much to bring him around to Shawn’s way of thinking, and he’s grateful for it.</p><p>Lassie, on the other hand, is a Big Fish. The biggest. Shawn’s been tossing lures out since Lassie registered on his radar—tall, handsome and repressed—without much thought for what might happen if he got a bite. But now that he’s got a hook in, he isn’t about to let this fish go.</p><p>Whistling something cheerful, he sets off for the SBPD.</p>
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